


The Peacock Chair

by Su_Whisterfield



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-07 23:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21466486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Su_Whisterfield/pseuds/Su_Whisterfield
Summary: The very earliest days in the Mansion are strange and exciting to a European Romany acrobat. They’re annoying and irritating to a Canadian fighter, used to being a loner.And their lovely Wind Rider is homesick too.But Kurt has A Plan.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14





	The Peacock Chair

Nightcrawler  
The house, the Mansion is endlessly fascinating and wondrous to Kurt. He’s never been in such an imposing building, let alone living in such splendour. Oh, he’s seen big houses in his travels around Europe, but circus children learn very early that these places were not for the likes of them, that going there would earn you a clip around the ear from an adult, or even worse, a backside full of buckshot from the gamekeeper or gardener it they caught you, so you kept away. If the apples from orchards near the road, or tart cherries or crunchy hazelnuts, ended up in your pockets, well, that was just accidental.  
The circus had a mobile cinema but all the films were black and white and old, from the Forties or Fifties, or even older, the big houses in the old films were full of cobwebs and candles and Mrs Danvers.

His bedroom alone is bigger than the caravan he spent the first eighteen years of his life sharing with at least two, often three, other people. It has its own bathroom, Jean calls it ‘en-suite’, which is also all his. It has a bath. Kurt has never bathed in anything so opulent, in the caravan it was a bucket of water and a flannel, no matter how hot and sweaty you were after a show. He can very, very easily spend an hour in a hot bath with a book, longer if he tops up the water. The mansion has a _library_ It will take him years to run out of things to read.  
It sometimes makes his head spin. There are shelves, cupboards, wardrobes, just for him. They’re mostly empty, he came here with nothing much, the costume he wore in the show, his bible and rosary and his own six dog eared and very well loved books. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

He also brought his clothes, but the three shirts, two pairs of trousers, underwear and coat were so threadbare, repaired, shabby, that it seems an insult to the beautiful polished wood to hang them or put them in the drawers, so they are still in his battered case, under the bed. He washes them, carefully, in the bathroom sink but he could do with somewhere to dry them. The socks were knitted by Mama Bertinis, especially tailored to his feet, of course, but she stopped knitting a couple of years ago, when her eyesight began to fail, they are much darned; he’s annoyed at himself for being ashamed of them, they were knitted with love. He needs a needle and wool to darn them, but he doesn’t have any money, or anywhere to buy them from, for that matter.

There’s a pool and a gym. He can use them whenever he wants. Scott shows him how to program the Danger Room to provide a full flying rig, trapeze, high wire, everything. It’s like magic, he’s never used a computer before, he’s never seen a computer before, though he doesn’t confess this to Scott, his thick fingers are clumsy and he’s embarrassed by his ignorance. Scott doesn’t seem bothered and tells him he’s quick to learn, which makes him happy. Sometimes he really thinks he’s just dreaming it all.

There is endless, free, food. This is also a marvel to him. Free. Though a lot of it seems very bland, very sweet, even the bread is sweet, there is so much, he can eat as much as he wants, whenever he is hungry.  
They eat together most evenings, he’d wondered who cooked, then he found Jean, alone, cutting vegetables for a huge stew. She shouldn’t have to be cooking alone. He’s no chef, but he can cut vegetables. And big, amiable, Peter the Russian also helps, he’s better at it than Kurt. The three of them make it less of a chore, more like fun. Kurt can juggle almost anything, carrots and onions and the peeling knife are easy.  
When she decides to leave, to go live in the city, they miss her.

Language between them is interesting. Jean, like the Professor, can speak in people’s heads, which is strange and curious and she can make quite a lot understood without words. Peter speaks only Russian, Sean and Scott only English. Beautiful, aloof, Ororo speaks her native language, not much English, but is quite fluent in French, Kurt knows French, knows quite a few languages really, not necessarily well, but he can get along in French, Italian, English, a smattering of Dutch and Belgian (mostly important stuff, like how to order _bier_), Spanish, but he’s rusty, Rom and German, obviously. He can read English, French and German, he taught himself to read when he realised that some of the films the cinema showed were based on books. __

_ __ _

_ __ _

He’s not sure what languages the short, grumpy man called Wolverine speaks. They don’t even know his name. He keeps himself apart, separate, alone, but Kurt thinks understands more than he lets on. Then the Professor uses his clever mind powers to teach them all good English, it makes life easier, but it’s less fun at the dinner table, he thinks, without the exchange of conversation, from English to French over the passing of the peas.

Wolverine.  
Place is a feckin’ madhouse. Or a circus, we’ve already got a clown. What’s that they say, never work with children or animals? It’s got a tail, for Christ’s sake. Two pretty girls though, the African dame is quite somthing, bit too classy for me, but the readhead, Jeannie, oh boy, she’s the real deal.  
Posh digs, but too much for me, I prefer the quiet. Been running in the woods. Sleepin’ out there too.

Summers got me teaching his newbies some self defence, all fine and good saying you’re gonna’ be superheroes, but these kids are gonna’ get creamed if they don’t learn real quick.  
Big Ruskie, Pete is fast for his size and damn strong, but too bothered when he hits someone, they’re all too fuckin’ soft. The blue misfit too, he’s damn fast and quick to learn, but he’s too light to really pack a punch, best I can get him to do is ‘port in and hit and hit and hit, until someone takes him down. No killer instinct either, he’s gonna get splattered in a real fight. Interestingly, Ororo has no problems with dropping a killer blow. She doesn’t follow through, disciplined, but she has it in her, I can tell.  
Thought we were finally gettin’ somewhere when I was showin’ ‘em a headlock, and how to break a neck, but the misfit went green. Really, actually green and ‘ported away. Feckin’ amateurs.

Nightcrawler  
The fight training bothers him. He’s fine with learning self defence, his only fighting in the circus has been stage work, the Professor has promised him a fencing tutor! But it wasn’t Scott or Sean today, it was Wolverine, who doesn’t seem to know how to teach defensive throws, only how to kill.  
He’s a good teacher, he clearly knows what he’s doing. But he’s also a bad teacher, no less grumpy than usual, a hard teacher, he says it’s to save their lives, but he’s antagonistic and dangerous and Kurt just doesn’t trust him. When he’s showing them a throw, he can hurt; his bones, he boasts, are metal. They’re hard, they leave bruises, Kurt doesn’t see why practice sessions should raise bruises. And Kurt isn’t interested in learning how to kill. Not in the slightest.  
  
Wolverine had been showing them neck holds, talking so casually about ‘snapping necks’. Too many memories, too recent. He teleports out of the Danger Room straight into his own bathroom before he’s violently sick, shaking, he’s too weak for this. He wipes his mouth, the taste of bile still sour in his throat. Thoughts of Stefan makes the nausea come back; the crunch of fracturing bone, the dead weight in his arms. He kneels by his bed to pray for forgiveness, which, he knows, as a murderer, he doesn’t deserve.  
He doesn’t go down for dinner. He’s starting to wonder if he belongs here?

But he likes these people. Scott is serious, dedicated to the Professor and his cause, even more so after they lose John Proudstar. Sean is funny, warm and friendly. Big Peter is quiet but Kurt thinks he’s trustworthy, he’s solid and dependable and has a lovely smile. Ororo is just breathtaking, beautiful in body and soul, he’s smitten with her, and a little intimidated by her, not that he’d admit it to anyone else. Jean is also beautiful, and very kind to him, to everyone, but she’s clearly only got eyes for Scott.  
He wonders what they would think of him if they knew?

He escapes to the rooftops, it’s another world up there, terracotta chimneys, slates, water tanks, just him and the pigeons.  
He finds beautiful old iron works, lost amongst the gables, and older skylights, forgotten and rusted shut, peering through the dirty glass, he’s slightly disappointed that the room below is empty; no mad maiden aunt entombed in the garret, just dust and pigeon droppings.

When he goes back to his room, someone, Jean or Ororo he guesses, has brought up a dinner tray for him. Their kindness makes him smile and puts him back in good humour. 

Wolverine  
Misfit didn’t show for dinner, he really is too soft for this game. Chuck has words with me, he was less than impressed with scaring his precious students. Told it to him straight; these kids need to toughen up or they’re dead.  
Felt a bit guilty though, Misfit really did go green this afternoon, which, given his colouring, is impressive. I find Jeannie in the kitchen, plating up some dinner to take up to him. I turn on the charm and tell her I’ll take it up and apologise to him. She gives me that megawatt smile, hell, she’s beautiful, wasted on that skinny drink of water, Summers.

When I get up to the freak’s room, there’s no sign of his fuzzy butt.  
Room smells of fear, bathroom of puke. He really was scared. Wonder why?

Nightcrawler  
Kurt talks to the Professor about Wolverine and training. He doesn’t want to learn to kill. He has already killed. The Professor knows this, knows about Stefan. He has seen the shadows on Kurt’s soul. They talk about it, the Professor is kind and sympathetic, he tells Kurt that killing Stefan was traumatic, but he was stopping his brother from killing more children. Kurt knows this, but it is still a shadow of shame and horror on his soul. He doesn’t think the Professor understands that. The Professor will speak with Wolverine. Kurt just decides to avoid him.  
  
The Professor is pleased with Kurt’s progress here, how quick he is learning, not just the superhero training, but the lessons in maths and English; he’d had to confess, shamefaced, that while he’d taught himself to read and write, his mathematical skills were minimal, no one in the circus saw much use in maths, beyond counting the takings at the box office. So he has lessons, simple stuff a child should know, but the Professor says he is progressing very fast, that he’s not stupid, he’s just never been to school. And doesn’t tell anyone else. Kurt’s tutor used to be the old lion tamer, Alberto, who taught most of the kids who were interested, but Kurt outstripped his teaching years ago; he taught himself, mostly just things he needed to know, like how to keep their old, battered van running, how to alter clothes to fit himself, how to build a fire. Useful stuff. Not so useful now, so he works hard on his lessons. But he won’t learn how to kill.  
  
The next time he goes onto the rooftops, he gets a pleasant surprise; lovely Ororo drifts out of the clear sky to join him.  
They talk for a while about the sky and stars and light pollution from the big city, how you can taste the pollution in the air. He loves to hear her talk about Africa, his only knowledge is from old, old films, made by people who probably had never been there. It sounds fascinating and beautiful and he loves seeing it through her eyes. And he’d never thought about how big it is, bigger than Europe, she has only seen a tiny part of it. He tells her about Europe and circus life. Like her, he’s not used to cities, the circus mostly only played to small, rural towns and villages.  
But she’s sad; she’s missing her home, unlike him, she finds her room too small, she isn’t sure she wants to be here, it’s all too different, cold, confining. It makes him sad too, he’d miss her if she left.

He remembers the dusty loft with the skylights and a kernel of an idea forms. 

It’s not hard to find the door to the loft inside. The door isn’t locked and he confirms there really are no mad old ladies up there. Or anything else, for that matter, the place has been empty for years. It’s above the middle of the house, heat from below makes it warm. The floor is painted with some sort of sealant and there are scars where large square things once stood. He wonders what it was used for? A mad scientist’s lab perhaps?  
The room is dusty, musty, not very prepossessing, but it’s very large and the big skylights, even dirty, let in a lot of light, they’d let in even more if cleaned.

He speaks to the Professor, it’s his property after all, but he seems positively keen on Kurt’s idea. He tells Kurt it used to have the water tanks in it, before they were moved to the roof and hasn’t been used since.  
But the room is too big, he can’t do this alone. He’s promised the Professor it won’t get in the way of his studies; not that Kurt would let it, he values the lessons he is now taking too much to skip them.

His new friends seem keen on the idea too; they will clean up, tidy and paint the loft to make a room for Ororo. Kurt is economical with the truth, he doesn’t tell them she’s planning on going back to Africa, just that she finds her room too small and the loft is big, she could fly in there, she could come and go through the skylights, she will love it. His enthusiasm is as infectious as his smile, they all end up helping. He doesn’t bother to ask Wolverine though, he knows what the answer will be.

It’s not really what Kurt would call hard work; taking down a sodden canvass tent in a howling gale and driving rain, that’s hard work, but the loft is big and he has the feeling that time is short before Ororo leaves. He’s trying to keep this a secret from her, for now.  
Bobby, Hank and Warren, even though officially moved out, come to help. Jean is great for cleaning, piles of rubbish can be miraculously lifted out of the skylight by her telekinesis. Bobby and Scott man the brooms, both smeared with dust and cobwebs, they grin at each other as the rubbish magically soars away. Sean and Peter are working on the skylights, the wood is still solid, but the hinges have rusted shut through years of neglect. Sean is good with a screwdriver and Peter has the strength. Warren cleans the glass outside and in. Kurt and Hank clean the ceiling, their fur grey with dust. 

Painting is easier, Jean takes Ororo shopping, while they whitewash walls and ceiling. The Professor provides paint. The loft looks huge now, Kurt stands under the clear skylight, pleased with the space. But it feels a bit too empty. Peter provides an unexpected idea, he will paint plants, large jungle fronds on the walls. Kurt is pretty sure there isn’t any jungle in Africa, but the idea appeals and all it takes is a little green paint, mixed with the white. Peter draws the outlines of big leaves on the walls and everyone else colours them in with shades of green. The effect is very dramatic and breaks up the white walls.  
Kurt and Hank’s fur is splattered with green and white paint, but neither of them care. The loft is a spectacular success and they all had fun doing it.

They’re letting the paint dry before showing Ororo. Kurt is tired, it’s been a busy few days. Everyone is out of the mansion, he doesn’t even know where the Professor is, somewhere in New York, Sean has gone to a local bar, Bobby, Hank and Warren have left, Scott, Jean and Peter are taking Ororo to the cinema. He’d half like to have gone, but it’s a warm evening, the idea of bundling up in all the clothes he’d need to hide under doesn’t appeal, besides, he’s quite enjoying the peace and quiet. He makes himself a sandwich for dinner and sits at the kitchen table, reading the local Salem Centre paper.  
He’s finding America considerably different to what he expected, some of it good, some less so, all of it fascinating. And the local paper provides an insight into the lives of everyday people, so far removed from the life he knew, but non-circus people have always been strange to him, even in Germany. There are articles about a new library, a dog show, a local politician getting a divorce, most fascinating of all are the small ads, a little window into other lives. Children’s toys for sale (they grow up so fast), pet rabbits, free to good homes (oops, someone let a buck in with the girls), sofas, old cars, kitchen tables (from a household moving? Splitting up? Just wanting something new?).  
One ad catches his eye.  
“Free. Two dozen house plants in pots. Must collect by Friday. Tel 03948 29374”  
Free. Well, that’s a good start, he still has no money. House plants. He thinks of the loft, all clean and white. And empty. How beautiful would it be with two dozen house plants? Today is Thursday.  
He reaches for the phone.

Fifteen minutes later, he has a new friend in Mrs Williams, knows her full life history, all about her children and her move tomorrow to Florida, to sheltered housing, nearer to her daughters. And he’s agreed to go pick up two dozen house plants. Mrs Williams tells them they are “Beautiful! Honey, you have no idea. And I still don’t see why I can't take them but Jasmine and Jada insist they’re not going.”  
He puts down the receiver, looks at his hand as he does so. Two fingers. Two blue fingers, still with a fleck or two of white paint on them. Hm. He looks out of the window, it’s just gone seven, the light isn’t fading yet, indeed, it’s a lovely golden evening. The thought of those plants going in a skip tomorrow. Such a waste. And now letting down Mrs Williams too. “Such a good boy, to come here and rescue my babies. God sent you to me, to be my angel.”  
He glances down at the address, then goes in search of a hat, coat, glasses, gloves.

He stands in front of the garage. Hm. He can drive, of course he can drive, he’s been coaxing elderly white vans, often towing a caravan or a bulky trailer, down county roads since he was about fifteen. Maybe younger. Driving licence? Hm.  
Well, he’ll just have to make sure he drives well enough not to have the police interested in him.  
The garage contains several cars and bikes and the pickup truck. The cars, apart from Charles’ Rolls Royce and the pickup, are all automatic, which he’s not used to. Besides, plants, plant pots, the pickup is the obvious choice. He reaches for the handle of the cab.

Someone clears their throat behind him and a cloud of pungent cigar smoke fills the air. Kurt jumps, turning midway into a crouch, heart pounding. His short, hairy nemesis is leaning against the wall behind him, hat pulled down over his eyes. He’d happily forgotten Wolverine over the last few days.

“Goin’ somewhere, Misfit?”

Wolverine  
Misfit and his new buddies had been busy over the last week, converting one of the loft spaces. I was guessin’ it was for ‘Ro, ‘cos she’d been kept out of the loop. Nice job by the time they’d done it. And blue boy had been in charge. So I didn’t get an invite. Fair enough. But what’s he up to now? Why’s he dressed like it’s minus ten outside? And why’s he after my wheels?  
He goes into a perfect defensive crouch, see, he can be taught. And damn he’s fast.  
But he relaxes when he sees who it is. Still too soft.  
“_Herr_ Wolverine.” He glances at the truck and then me. Don’t think it had occurred to him that it’s mine. Well, technically Chuck’s, but I’m the only one to drive it. I can see the calculations going on in his head. Does he come clean and tell me what he’s up to? ‘Port into the cab and make a dash for it? Don’t try it son, I’m as fast as you are and I’ll hand you your tail on a plate.

I get the whole story. I’m sorry I asked. I hear all about his precious loft, cleaning it, painting it, the newspaper, Mrs Williams and her plants. Ororo wanting to leave. All in a strong German accent, he speaks so fast, as it trying to get the lot out before I decide to deck him. Perceptive kid. About two thirds through, I get the gist; he’s going to Salem Centre to pick up some unwanted plants for his pet project. I’ve nothing better to do and I’ll be damned if he’s wrecking the clutch on my pickup, I sort of chivvy him into the cab and we pull out onto the driveway before he’s fully realised that I’m onboard.  
Hell, there aren’t enough pretty women round here, don’t want to lose ‘Ro too.  
He removed the scarf, gloves and hat when he got in the cab, warm in there, the coat soon follows. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He really is a freak. Pointed ears, that tail, like something from a fairytale. Or a nightmare. He sees me looking at him and it shuts him up, for a moment. Astonishing eyes.  
But he can’t be quiet for long. I get a monologue about his impressions of America, how different it is to what he imagined. How nice everyone is, how kind. Which kinda’ gets me thinking. I bet a lot of people have been less than kind to him over the years.  
This isn’t something that showed up when he was a teenager; he’s lived like this his whole life. Can’t have been easy. “Look, about that training shit.” The smile is banished, his back goes straight. I’m trying to apologise here, kid. I remember the smell of real fear in his room. “I know you don’t wanna hear this, but you’re gonna have to toughen up, it’s not all gonna be circus tricks an’ fun, ya know that? Ya saw what happened to Proudstar?” He goes stock still as I talk. He’s scared, not scared of me, he’s looking down at his own hands, he’s scared of himself. Still waters run deep, so maybe not a kid after all. Now’s not the time, but I think we’re gonna need to have a talk. “I’m sorry. Okay?” He nods and it goes quiet, until we get to town and he starts to feed me directions. 

Nightcrawler  
He’s utterly surprised and more than a little stunned by Wolverine driving him into town, he really thought he was in trouble when the man first appeared, but here they are, driving through quiet suburban streets in the warm evening sun, looking for the right house, just like real friends would. Kurt looks at the heavy coat, hat, scarf. Mrs Williams is going to think him insane, turning up on her doorstep dressed like that.  
He thinks about the apology too. What would Wolverine think if he’d told him about it? About Stefan? Something tells him that this quietly dangerous man would know more about how he feels than the intellectual Professor. But the words won’t come. Not yet. Not here, not now, perhaps if he had a beer or two in him? Dutch courage? He wonders where Sean has gone for a drink?  
  
Mrs Williams home is a bungalow, on a corner plot, just as she described, they pull into the drive in front of the garage. The garden is starting to show some signs of neglect, some of the paint is peeling on the windows. Kurt thinks that Mrs Williams’ daughters might be right; the house is becoming too much for her now she’s alone.  
Kurt looks at the blue painted door and reaches for his hat, Wolverine stops him with a hand on his arm.  
“S’okay, I’ll go make nice with the lady.”  
Kurt smiles his thanks, he hasn’t realised how nervous he’d feel, going up to the front door, looking as he does. Looking like a monster. It’s one thing to walk around the circus or the protected confines of the mansion, quite another to show up on the picket fenced suburban streets of Salem Centre. 

Wolverine marches up to the door as though he owns the place, so confidently. Kurt has confidence, when he’s Nightcrawler, when he’s in the ring or even in the gym. He needs Nightcrawler’s confidence here too. He opens the door of the pickup and follows him. Mrs Williams opens the door to them both.  
Kurt turns on Nightcrawler’s charm and hides behind it.

As they load the back of the truck with all the plants, some of them are huge, he reflects that he really didn’t need to have worried; Mrs Williams is pretty nearly blind. But he sweet talks her anyway. She’s fascinated by a young German and an older Canadian turning up on her door step. She loves the idea that her plants are a gift for their Kenyan friend, claps her hands with glee. Kurt tells her about cleaning and painting the loft. She tells them all about her daughters, her now deceased husband, her daughter’s families, her old job as a school teacher, her cats, who most definitely are going to Florida with her, the plants and their care and feeding. 

They spend a happy hour in her kitchen, drinking coffee once the plants are loaded. There are boxes everywhere. She’s clearly lonely. Kurt thinks she will be happier with her daughters nearby. She never once comments on how he looks, even when she pats his hand over the coffee cup. She runs her hand over the fur and peers at him.  
“You’re a good boy.” He feels himself blushing. “To do all this for your friend. And to listen to an old woman prattle on.”  
“That he is, m’am.” He’s even more surprised by Wolverine’s comment. And how relaxed he is in Mrs Williams kitchen; Kurt realises it’s the first time he’s seen the man relax since he met him.

They’re saying goodbye when Kurt notices the chair, in the hall, with a sideboard and other old wooden furniture.  
It’s a beautiful chair, made from straw or wicker, he supposes? It has a huge back, intricately woven, like a peacock’s tail. It looks like something off a film set or a 1960s photo shoot.  
“Mrs Williams?”  
“Yes, dear.”  
“The chair, the one in the hall...”  
She looks sad. “It’s too big for my new apartment. It was my favourite chair. The man from the auction house is picking it up tomorrow.” She sighs. “It’s original, they say it’s valuable, but I’d much rather keep it.”  
Valuable. He’d been going to ask if they could have it. But it’s valuable. And he has no money. Oh well.  
“It’s beautiful.” He says. Lamely.

He gets back to the truck, then Kurt realises Wolverine has doubled back and he’s alone. He turns round to see the other man coming out of Mrs Williams door, manhandling the enormous chair before him. Mrs Williams is behind, there’s several dollar bills in her hand. Quite a lot of dollar bills. Kurt raises an eyebrow, but before he can speak, Wolverine grunts.  
“Give us a hand here, Elf.”  
“Sorry!”  
Two of them easily lift the chair, it’s not heavy, but it’s cumbersome.  
Mrs Williams waves them off.

“Thank you.” Kurt grins as they cruise away.  
“S’okay. Thought ‘Ro would like it.” He reaches into his jacket, “Mrs W gave you this too.”  
It’s a photo, a bit battered, a bit faded. It’s Mrs Williams sat in the peacock chair. She’s young, in her twenties? She’s beautiful. Mr Williams is stood behind the chair. It’s a marvellous photo of them both. Kurt smiles all the more. Her chair, like her plants, is going to a good new home. Wolverine is correct, Ororo will love them.  


The warm evening air comes through the open truck window, ruffling his hair and stirring his fur. Mrs Williams wasn’t scared of him. Loner Wolverine is helping him. He hopes the loft will make Ororo happy enough to stay. He wonders how they’re going to get the chair into the loft, without stinking it out with sulphur. But he’s not a flyer or an acrobat or a freak now, he’s a superhero; he’ll work it out before they get home.

**Author's Note:**

> That was fun to write. They were such disparate characters in the early days; Kurt, Ororo and Peter in particular, coming to the USA must have been so strange. Just the shift from rural to urban, let alone the culture shock.  
Kurt’s killed his brother days before joining the team and Charles never sees fit to warn anyone that he might have issues (yeah, yeah, I know that’s because Stefan was later addition to his backstory, but in hindsight, it’s huge). He’s also de-aged over the last (gulp is it that long) forty five years, CC and Dave Cockrum had him starting out at least in his early to mid twenties, he seems no older than 25 now.  
Anyway. A bit of harmless team building over renovating Ororo’s loft.  
In the days before we knew Wolverine’s name too.


End file.
